


Turnabout

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Bad Day At The Office, Episode Related, F/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s day keeps going from bad to worse. Once in a while Malcolm has to take a turn at providing stress relief in the office, although with the Leader a laughing stock he probably needs it too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with the intention of incorporating it into “Giving Up The Ghost” but as that’s progressed, this no longer fits. Posting as a one-shot rather than wasting it completely! Set during the second episode of Series 4.

“I know, Jen, I know.” Her desk phone was ringing insistently, just as it had been from the minute she unlocked her office at eight-thirty. Sam Cassidy dug the tip of her index finger into her right temple, trying to massage away the humungous headache she could feel building behind it while her best university friend sobbed in one ear and the landline trilled like a demented out-of-tune nightingale at the other.

She’d had bad days in the office before but nothing, _nothing_ came close to this.

“But he said he loved me, Sam! How could he… and she’s an absolute dog, you know? Tattoos everywhere, and half of them spelt wrong…”

“Sounds more the bastard’s level than you! Jenny, I’m not unbiased, you know I’ve never liked him.” 

Tact and diplomacy. People thought that being Malcolm Tucker’s PA she must be good at exercising those. As Jennifer Roberts howled, drowning out the landline in the worst way imaginable, Sam found herself gloomily pondering just how deceptive appearances could be.

“I’ve just got to take this call, OK? You hang on, I’ll be straight back.” Without giving her friend time to answer Sam dropped her mobile and seized the bane of her existence. “Malcolm Tucker’s office.”

Yet another gabbling hack. Yet another smarmy enquiry about the Party’s long-held position on primary school breakfast clubs, since the Leader clearly didn’t have a fucking clue. Reciting her prepared response for the fifteenth time in an hour Sam shut her eyes and created a mental image of a wall, pitted with bullet holes and with two blindfolded figures standing before it.

One bullet left in the gun. John Marsden and Nicola Murray awaiting it. Dismissing the journalist and retrieving her Blackberry, Sam honestly suspected under those circumstances she’d turn the bloody thing on herself.

“Oh God I’m sorry Sam, you’re at work and everything, and I’ve been sobbing on your shoulder for the last hour.” As if the constant interruptions hadn’t given that away before she thought, hating herself for the silent sarcasm. Jen adored the slimy womanising bastard, believed every word that came out of his weak, slack, lying mouth. “What’ll Malcolm…”

“Malcolm,” the gentleman’s PA said firmly, “Will be volunteering to unleash his attack dogs this evening with orders to remove that cheating prick’s miniscule bollocks with their unsharpened teeth!”

She was relieved to hear a hiccoughed giggle. “Anyway, he’s stuck with Shadow Cabinet at the moment – you know, trying to extract a pearl from the giant puddle of dog-sick that was Nicola’s Policy Unit speech. I haven’t dared mention the fiasco at the Cenotaph yet.”

“Oh God that was bad, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck off! Sorry Jen, not you: this bloody phone hasn’t let up all _sodding_ morning!”

“What _would_ your mother say?”

The question dissolved into another fit of sobbing. “Oh God I know I’m an idiot but I can’t just stop loving him, Sam!”

“Try,” she muttered, switching one phone for the other and wondering – not for the first time – how Malcolm managed to juggle handsets so easily. She could still hear her friend’s wailing while she repeated the Party Line and took yet another telephone number for her boss’s list. 

She’d have to go round and keep Jen company tonight; drink too much vodka and let her friend cry herself to sleep on her shoulder, just as she had the last time. And the time before. And the time before that.

The leaden feeling in Sam’s stomach intensified. “Listen Jen, I know it’s tough, but how many times have you forgiven him for _one stupid drunken fuck_? You’re too good for him, girl, and deep down I think he knows it; why else would he keep finding hairy-armpitted, tattooed sluts to shag when you’re away? You deserve so much better and if you even think of taking him back this time I’ll – oh, for heaven’s _sake!_ ”

“I’m sorry, I should let you go.” The piteous sniffle almost broke her heart, cracking through the crust of building frustration. “And – thanks for listening, you’re a pal.”

“Jen, I’ll – oh, never mind.” The line went dead before she could make the offer. Mechanically doing her duty by the Party, Sam reeled off a silent litany of her employer’s more imaginative obscenities against all those witless, hairy-arsed imbeciles who were utterly determined to ruin her fucking day.

The call concluded she flipped on her voicemail, snatched the cup of cold, filmy tea she’d been intending to drink two hours ago and marched toward the communal kitchen with a face of thunder, positively daring any of the other menials left on the premises to approach and experiencing an almost Tuckeresque thrill of delight when they scattered in all directions. 

Tea. Tea and five minutes of complete silence, or the chance to throw a screaming fit at someone who wouldn’t take offence and run away in tears. Those were her best options and in the absence of the one person who’d tolerate the latter, the very British option was the only one available.

She thought it had worked. Ambling back upstairs cradling her steaming mug Sam felt better than she had since breakfast. Approaching the open-plan hub she even managed a smile at Helen and Ollie as they struggled out of their coats. ShadCab. What in God’s name was the woman thinking, prattling away about _ShadCab?_

She had one hand on the doorknob when it happened. The door flew forward, smack into her chest. Sam stumbled backwards, scalding caramel liquid arcing in elegant swirls over the rim of her cup and all over her immaculate ivory blouse. “So you see, Malcolm – what the fuck are you _doing_ , woman!”

Hot fluid seeped into her chest, exposing the lacy edge of her bra. Hot tears stung the corners of Sam’s eyes, the weight of the whole day crashing down on her while Fatty, his folder drenched with her tea and his multiple chins wobbling with repressed fury, glowered and over his shoulder Malcolm Tucker regarded her with unabashed – and uncharacteristic – concern.

“Sam? Come on pet, what’s wrong? Helen, get someone to clear this mess up please, come on love it’s all right, no harm done, eh?”

She was vaguely aware he was scowling at Fatty; that the gigantic twat’s stuttered apology was entering her left ear and going straight out the right, not that it mattered, he was only doing it to pacify a man who didn’t approve of senior figures throwing their considerable weight around with the _lower orders_. Trapped in a bubble of numb humiliation she barely registered the comforting weight of his hand on her arm, the soft flow of melodic Scots reassurance rippling over and around her. 

People were staring. She had to get away.

“It’s all right pet; it’s all right, come on.” Careless of the scrutiny they were under Malcolm guided her quickly through into his office, pausing just long enough to lock the outer door of hers. “What’s happened to get you like this, Sam, eh? Who do I have to hunt down and disembowel for ye, don’t cry lass, you know I’m fuckin’ hopeless when you cry!”

“Sorry, sorry.” His compassion was more than she could stand. Burying her face against his shoulder Sam closed her eyes, bit her lip and shuddered silently, willing the tears to stop. If he’d yelled – treated her with the scorn he reserved for most of the world – she could have fought back; used some of the frustrated rage swirling through her system constructively. 

But oh, no. Westminster’s Mr Nasty had to choose exactly that moment to turn nice. _Bastard!_

Dextrous fingers released her ponytail, combing through the glossy strands. Murmuring nonsense, Malcolm stretched across her to ensure his phone remained firmly diverted through to her answering machine before turning his attention to her sodden blouse, deftly unpicking tiny pearl buttons and easing the wet fabric away from her reddened skin. “Poor wee thing,” he crooned, dipping down to nose at her, his breath ticklish and cooling as it flowed down the valley between her breasts. His tongue slid along the stained edge of her bra, lapping away tea and sting in one seductive motion. 

“Malcolm, we can’t,” she sighed even as her back arched, pressing more of her succulent curves into his open mouth. Removing the last barrier one-handed, Malcolm raised his head just long enough to give her a wicked smile.

“Never stopped us before,” he countered, all too truthfully. Before she could remember that Number Ten’s walls were thicker their present location’s he slipped a hand up beneath her skirt.

“Bastard!” 

He hesitated just long enough to reassure himself she wasn’t serious. “So I’m told,” he agreed placidly. “Problem?”

Her head fell back; a fact probably not unconnected with his index finger choosing just that moment to slide inside her silky knickers. “Nooooo,” Sam hissed exultantly, feeling as warm and fluid as the stain on her abandoned blouse while she began to melt around the hand pressing harder, its heel rubbing deep between her folds. His low laugh seemed to come from miles away.

“I thought not.”

Her underwear was no defence against those talented hands; her skirt slithered down in its wake and Sam reclined voluptuously amid his scattered papers, made brazen with bliss. Heavy-lidded brown eyes surveyed her lover, lingering on the prominent bulge pressing against his pants. “Want a hand with that?” she heard herself purring.

“Oh, I’ll manage.” His eyes glinted dangerously and a small thrill ran down her spine. Nobody was better at _managing_ than Malcolm. “You just lie back and relax, OK?”

More relaxed by the moment she followed every lazy movement of his long, elegant hands as he disrobed, taking his time to tantalise, damn him. With the wintry sunlight streaming in, glinting off his silver hair and dappling his lean, pale length with light and shade, he pushed all the day’s trauma out of her mind without so much as a touch.

“That’s my girl.” Leaning down he claimed her mouth in a slow-burner of a kiss. Sam arched her shoulders, pressing herself up to greet him while her hands curled possessively around his shoulders. Her legs dangled, spread wide apart in welcome for the fingers that played lovingly between them, preparing her with agonising slowness, as if he had all the time in the world.

Most likely, she decided woozily, he did. Nobody was going to break his door down!

He chose that moment to enter her, slow and steady as he stretched her inner walls, the friction stopping her breath and reducing the whole universe to the point where they joined. Strong arms slipped around her, guiding her upper body toward his until her breasts were crushed against the solidness of his chest and her head flopped onto his shoulder. Their surroundings ceased to matter.

If they ever had. Closing her eyes Sam surrendered to the sensations building in her belly, clinging on while he rocked, hitting all the right spots deep inside. Absently she nipped the side of his neck, that reverse-vampiric thing that always drove him wild. Her reward was a definite increase in tempo.

She did it again. “Enough!”

The word emerged between his teeth in time with the ragged jerk of his hips. Reckless as even she wouldn’t be under any other circumstance, Sam ignored it.

Malcolm gripped her tighter, fingertips burning deep into her arse cheeks as he raised her bodily off the desk, arching with the force of his orgasm as it slammed headlong into hers. Sam’s open mouth widened in a silent scream, shooting stars bursting behind her eyelids in time with the pulses, long, hot and blissful, of release that rolled over her. 

Only later did she marvel at his self-discipline, retaining the strength in his legs just long enough to shuffle to his chair before collapsing boneless with her on his lap. “Better?”

“Better,” she parroted, lapping away at the redness her enthusiasm had left around his jugular. His head lolled to the side, offering her greater access. Warmed by direct sunlight on her bare skin, secure in his hold, Sam couldn’t remember why her day had seemed so fucking disastrous to begin with. “Won’t Nicola be expecting…”

“The firing squad?” he suggested, just a bit too hopefully. Sam snuffled her approval.

“I was thinking more of a debrief, but if you’d prefer an execution…”

“A political one? Definitely.”

Even dopey in the afterglow she recognised the sudden sliver of steel in his tone and it sent a small shock through her. Sam raised her head, her eyes narrowing at the sight of slicing creases at the corners of his kiss-bruised mouth. “Eight months, you said,” she reminded him quietly.

“Yeah, but that was before she picked up the massive great carving knife Dan’s been sharpening in his spare time and stuck it straight into her own fuckin’ throat.” He was tensing beneath her, the helpless fury she had watched building in him through Nicola’s reign of egregious error bubbling through his bloodstream and dissipating the languorous aftermath of their activities. “She’s got tae go, Sam. Before she paddles the Party so far up Shit Creek we actually find its fucking source. Which’ll probably turn out to be her own fuckin’ arsehole.”

Only Malcolm Tucker could make that comment while slumped totally nude in his office chair. The incongruity of it splashed like cold water against her face. “Pillow talk’s certainly different with you, Malc,” she observed drily, softening what might be perceived as criticism with a peck to the cheek. He grinned crookedly.

“Yeah, well, gotta keep life interesting.” Reluctance in every line of him Malcolm eased her to her feet, allowing himself a moment to savour her gilded splendour before dressing at his usual warp speed. Moving more slowly, Sam came to a total stop with her tea-stained blouse draped across her hands. 

“Any suggestions?” she asked helplessly. Malcolm frowned.

Briefly, before his eyes lit up and he stooped to burrow through the chaos that was his bottom drawer. With a conjurer’s air he emerged waving a soft beige object Sam recognised as hers; the sweater she had been wearing the last time one of them had been over-stressed at lunchtime.

“Just as well it goes with the skirt,” she remarked, accepting the garment with a coolness acknowledged by the arch of a dark grey brow. “She’s finished then? Nicola?”

“Yes.” Malcolm yanked his tie straight and raked a long hand back through his hair, inadvertently mussing what he intended to smooth down. “I’d have preferred her to hang on until nearer the election – give the public less time to see through Dan the fuckin’ Cyberman – but she’s too fucking incompetent even to get that right. You with me on this?”

It cut to the heart that he even had to ask. “On everything,” Sam promised, smoothing the plush cashmere over her belly. “And thanks. This morning’s been total shit.”

“Welcome to my world.” Behind the habitual cynicism lurked real concern. Sam groaned.

“Jen caught the prick with his pants down again. Between her sobbing into my mobile and the fucking press smarming into the landline…”

“Shadow Cabinet doesn’t seem so bad any more.” He gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze that almost made her cry again. “You’ll be going round there tonight, then?”

“I’d better.” He nodded crisply but her heart sank all the same. “I might be stuck there all night…”

“Take tomorrow off if you need it.”

Sam folded her arms. Glared. “That wasn’t what I meant!”

“I know, but do it anyway, OK?” Before she could argue, he threw open the door sauntered to her desk and activated her voicemail. “Bollocks! Better get on with this lot, then.”

Normality. Politics. Exactly what she needed. Sam could have kissed him. 

Again.

Listening to him chunter his disgust at the first few impertinent messages, she decided to wait. As her day had got better, his seemed to be getting worse. He might need the distraction later!


End file.
